Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Still, my chest feels unpleasantly tight as I go back to my food, leaving him talking to the repairmen. I know letting Marcus pay for the door he broke doesn’t make me like my mother—logically, I know it—but I can’t help feeling like I’m taking advantage of him.
Like I’m using him, the way she’d always used her lovers and anyone else who cared about her.
Shaking off the memories, I sit down at the desk and shoo Mr. Puffs away from what remains of my gyro—which is not much. The cats have stolen most of the meat while I was away. Sighing, I quickly gobble down the rest and carry the dirty plate to the kitchen, where the sink is indeed clean.
Marcus not only washed his plate, he also dried it and put it away.
I do the same with mine and then put on some coffee, in case he wants a cup. I also take out my last remaining pint of salted caramel ice cream and two bowls, figuring I at least owe him dessert.
He enters the kitchen just as the hammering noises by the entrance begin.
“Ice cream?” I offer, scooping a generous portion into a bowl, and he shakes his head.
“None for me, thanks.”
“You don’t like it?”
He shrugs. “I don’t really eat sweets.”
Of course he doesn’t. Ice cream is for ordinary bums like me, not super-achievers like Marcus who count “fitness” among their hobbies. I’m surprised he ate the greasy gyro; he’s probably as disciplined in his diet as he seems to be in everything else.
“How about coffee?” I ask, and he agrees to that.
Black, of course—no sugar or milk for him.
I pour each of us a cup, then carry my coffee and ice cream bowl back to the room. The cats are nowhere to be seen at first, but then I notice the tip of a fluffy white tail sticking out from under the bed.
They must be hiding from the noise, which now includes both hammering and drilling.
Setting my coffee on the nightstand, I sit down on the bed to eat my ice cream, and to my surprise, Marcus joins me there with his coffee instead of taking his seat at the desk. He sits next to me, less than a foot away, and though we’re both fully dressed, I feel the proximity of his big body as keenly as if we were naked. My mind flashes to the kiss we just shared, and a hot flush covers my skin, my heartbeat jumping as if I’ve launched into a sprint.
Oh God. That kiss.
I’ve been trying not to think about it, so I don’t turn into a blushing, stuttering mess, but I can’t avoid it any longer. Kissing Marcus had to be the single hottest experience of my life, better than any sex I’ve had—or fantasized about. Everything about it was so wrong, yet so incredibly right. The way he held me, like he never wanted to let me go, the way his lips felt and tasted… He didn’t touch me anywhere but my back and my head, but I was on the verge of combusting, so aroused I can still feel the dampness in my underwear.
It doesn’t help that as we sit on the bed, his weight is depressing my old mattress, creating a dip in the soft surface that makes it hard for me to sit upright instead of leaning toward him. It’s like the illustrations of gravity, where a big celestial body creates an indentation in spacetime that prevents a smaller body from escaping its orbit.
That’s Marcus for me.
I can’t seem to escape his pull—nor am I sure I want to.
Our eyes meet, and the drilling noise intensifies, making any attempt at conversation impossible. Still, neither one of us looks away. With the men repairing the door, we have zero privacy, but the work might as well be happening miles away. All I’m aware of is him, his nearness and the growing heat in his gaze.
My hand is unsteady as I dip my spoon into the bowl and come up with some ice cream. Bringing it to my mouth, I close my lips around the creamy, salty-sweet coolness and let it slide down my throat as Marcus’s eyes darken, his hard features tightening as he reaches over me and sets his coffee cup down next to mine. I can feel his desire for me, sense its dangerous, potent draw, and my breathing quickens, my nipples pebbling inside the confines of my bra.
“Emma…” His voice is low and hoarse, somehow audible over the din. “I think… I want the ice cream, after all.”
My throat goes dry. “Do you want me to go get you some?”
Holding my gaze, he slowly shakes his head. “Give me some of yours.”
Oh God. There’s no way he’s just talking about the ice cream—not with that look in his eyes.